It seemed to me that all my life my mother had given me the wrong story, her made-up tales instead of Hansel and Gretel, had given me breadcrumbs instead of stones. That she had done this on purpose, told me the gaudiest, most wonder-filled lies she knew, so that I would not ask for anything more and stumble on her secret. It was too late now—I would have to find my own way back. But the path did not look at all familiar.
AFTERWORD
As I said earlier, I’ve never been very good at writing to an editor’s assignment. So when Ellen Datlow told me about an anthology of stories based on fairy tales she was co-editing with Terri Windling I promptly forgot all about it. Then one day I remembered that as a child I had confused the ovens of the concentration camps with the oven in “Hansel and Gretel,” and I thought that something might be made of that.
But fairy tales are never as simple as they seem. Perhaps because of the primal nature of the tale I was writing about the story grew broader and deeper at every turn. I realized that instead of writing about a superficial parallel, as I had thought, I was exploring the ways in which parents abandon children: Hansel and Gretel, Margaret and Johann, and finally Lynne and Sarah. Because of this complexity—like most fairy quests, half planned and half discovered along the way—“Breadcrumbs and Stones” is my favorite of all my stories.
THE WOMAN IN THE PAINTING
25 June 1858
My Dear Henry—
You will not believe what a treasure I found yesterday. As you know, I had been trying to finish the painting I began last January, but it grows no closer to completion, and indeed I sometimes feel that it will never be done, that I will still be attempting it when I have grown too old and feeble to hold a brush. And yesterday I had an additional problem: the light was poor, a sooty, sunless London day. As the painting proved impossible I resolved instead to take a walk to clear my brain, and I headed toward the shops in Leicester Square.
And that is where I saw her, in a milliner’s shop. At first, as I gazed at her through the dusty window, I thought her quite plain, with pallid brown hair and a thin, ungenerous mouth. To be honest I don’t know why I stared for so long, except that she posed a minor sort of mystery: She was not a shopgirl, and in some indefinable way I knew that she was not one of the ladies patronizing the store.
Then she turned and saw me. Do you know how some women seem to change their appearance in an instant? I cursed myself for thinking her plain. Her hair was not brown but long and thick and black; her mouth was red, her skin so white it seemed luminous.
I have thought about our first meeting several times since then, but I cannot explain that first glimpse I had of her. Perhaps when she turned to me my soul understood her as she truly is; perhaps (more likely, I admit) I had first seen her through a distortion in the glass.
I must have stared for several seconds, longer, I fear, than propriety allows. But when I came to my senses I saw that she was not offended. There was a dreamy expression on her face, a vague sort of confusion; everything in the store seemed equally a mystery to her, the hats, the shopgirls, the other ladies present. I yearned to paint her.
I went into the store, lifted my hat to her, and asked if I could be of assistance. She looked vastly startled, as if she had worked out that the store was inhabited only by women; my presence there threatened to pose a further mystery. Then her lips moved a little—I cannot describe so slight a motion as a smile—and she said, “You are very kind, sir.”
When she first spoke to me she had a faint accent, a way of pronouncing her words as if she were more used to singing than speaking. Now, a day later, the accent is quite gone. I cannot account for this. Everything about her is a mystery.
She would have said more, I believe, but at that moment she collapsed into a dead faint.
Bustle, commotion, ladies stepping back in horror, shopgirls hurrying to offer her smelling salts. At length her eyes fluttered open—they were a deep blue—and she moaned a little. The confusion had returned to her eyes.
The shopgirls were concerned, of course, but when she managed to stand, aided by two or three of them, they could not think what to do with her. One suggested that she rest in a chair provided for the patrons of the store, but the others quickly demurred—the owner of the shop would return soon, and the owner, it seemed, was a terrible dragon.
And there matters would have stayed, had I not lifted my hat a second time and offered to find the woman’s family. The girls turned to me gratefully, and in a short time I was leading this extraordinary woman through the streets of London.
Not knowing what else to do, I took her to a good restaurant and watched, amazed, as she ate a meal large enough for several stevedores. Her problem, then, had been simple hunger, as I had hoped; I had feared consumption, or worse.
And there my tale ends. She dropped off to sleep on my couch as soon as I brought her back to the studio, woke briefly this morning for another of her gargantuan meals, and is at present sleeping again. I have been able to find out next to nothing about her; she does not seem to know who her family is, or where she came from, or what she did before her collapse. I recited several names to her—Mary, Elizabeth, Jenny—and she responded strongest to Jenny, so that is what I call her.
She seems a gift from the gods. I wanted nothing more than to paint her, and here she is, delivered to my studio as if by heavenly messenger. I have abandoned the painting I had struggled with for so long and have started several preliminary sketches, hoping to use her as a model when she grows strong enough.
I trust that you and Kate are well. I know you both will understand if I ask you not to visit my studio for a few weeks—I am anxious to begin the new painting, and I work best with no distractions. I will write you as often as I can; our mail system, the best in the world, will see to it that I keep in touch with you.
Your loving friend, John
26 June 1858
Dear John—
I must admit that your letter disturbed me very much. For one thing, I would like the opportunity to examine this woman. I speak not only as a doctor but as one who has seen the ravages of consumption at close hand—for surely you remember when Kate’s poor sister Anna died of the disease. From what you tell me it seems quite possible that this unfortunate woman, this Jenny, is also a victim of consumption. Like many laymen you seem to think that you have enough medical knowledge to make a diagnosis, and such a belief is dangerous, both to you and to her.
But you put yourself in moral danger as well. Surely you must see that it is quite impossible for her to live with you. If she is an honest woman who has lost her memory you compromise her to the extent that she may no longer be able to make her way in society. Even if you act the perfect gentleman with her your situation is one that is bound to cause talk. And no doubt she has friends and family who are frantic with worry about her—think of them, and of what the loss of their loved one must mean to them.
And if she is not a lady—well, then, in that case I fear you compromise yourself. In either circumstance you must stop your painting and make every effort to find this woman’s family. Failing that, you must put her in a hospital. In any case, I would like to see her and make a diagnosis.
Your most sincere friend, Henry
26 June 1858
Dearest John,
I would like to add my voice to that of my husband, to ask you to allow us to come call on you at the studio. Henry and I have never forgotten your kindnesses to us during the dreadful year when my sister was ill, and we would consider it an honor to be allowed to repay you.
Your loving friend, Kate
27 June 1858
Henry—
It is not surprising that you abandoned painting when we were together at university. The surprise is that you became a doctor instead of a prating literal-minded clerk; you have the very soul of a clerk. Why must you constantly prostrate yourself before the god Propriety? There is nothing unseemly about my sharing the studio with this creature: she is ill, and canno
t be moved for days, perhaps weeks.
You are my doctor, true, but you are not my conscience. Really, Henry, the accusations you make! I must confess myself surprised you did not go on to call me a white slaver. Please believe me when I say that she is as safe here as she would be in any house in England. And I am doing everything in my power to find her family.
And tell me, O keeper of my conscience, what would you have done with her? Where would you have taken her? She has still not remembered her family, or her occupation if she had one. I am afraid she is a prostitute, one of the many women who have come to London and have been unable to find work in more honest trades. And if that is the case then it is an act of mercy for me to use her as my model. Though society frowns on women who model for artists we both know that this is honorable work, and far more worthy of her than her former profession.
You will be happy to hear that I have started a new painting, one inspired by her beauty. She has lost the confused expression she had when I found her; she now seems regal, unmoved, as remote as an allegorical figure or an ancient queen. Of course I must paint her as Guinevere, waiting for Lancelot. I believe strongly that it will be the best thing that I have ever done.
Please do not come visit, as I cannot afford the time to receive you. I must take advantage of every minute of the day until the light fails. And even then, with the help of dozens of lamps, I am able to work, to paint in the background while She sleeps.
—John
28 June 1858
My Dear John—
I am sorry if my letter offended you—you must know that I was only trying to offer my help. If you will not let me see this woman I hope you will tell me more about her. What are her symptoms? Does she grow stronger or weaker? Does she speak of her family at all? What was she wearing when you met her?
I hope that you are well.
Your sincere friend, Henry
29 June 1858
My Dear Henry—
I am happy to see that you have climbed down from your high horse, that you are able to discuss the matter of Jenny calmly. And you must know I never truly opposed you, my dear friend; of course she must be found lodgings as soon as possible. But, as I said before, she is far too ill to be moved now.
You ask about her clothes. They are of surprisingly good quality. I know next to nothing about women’s clothing, but even I can see that hers are made of good fabric, with fine lace at the throat and wrists. Upon reading this you will, I know, return immediately to your earlier suspicions and tell me that she is a great lady, but I am now entirely convinced, for reasons I will tell you later, that this is not the case. It is far more likely, I think, that she had the patronage of some wealthy lord, and lost it again.
Besides, it no longer matters to me who she is. She is Guinevere.
She is also, unfortunately, quite mad, and this is why I do not believe she is a lady; no family of high birth would let their daughter wander the streets in her condition. She wakes several times a night and goes to the windows; once there she looks out at the stars for minutes, sometimes hours. If she were not so clearly a human woman I would think her an angel, longing for heaven. And she asks questions about the most ordinary things—What is a pen? What is a butter knife? She seems a blank slate, a canvas on which I may paint anything.
Yours, John
30 June 1858
My Dear Henry—
I write you in a state of high excitement. Before I can continue, though, I must ask you not to repeat, under any circumstances, what I am about to tell you.
I would also ask you not to judge me. I know you are worried about the possibility that I might corrupt this woman, but I must assure you that she was as eager for what happened as I.
She is, as I mentioned before, ignorant about things of the world; there is no guilt for her in matters of the flesh. Unlike most women she showed no coy hesitation as she removed her dress; rather, she seemed curious as to what might come next.
I write you not to boast about my conquest but to ask your professional advice as a doctor. For I have to tell you that when she removed her undergarments it seemed for a moment that her parts were not formed as are those of other women. For the space of an instant I saw nothing but a smooth expanse of skin between her legs. And then this skin seemed to unfold as I watched, petaling like a flower, or opening like an eye.…
So quickly did this happen that once or twice since I wondered if I imagined it. But I know beyond a doubt that it did take place.
My question to you, of course, is—Is such a thing possible? Have you ever come across such a thing in your practice?
Yours sincerely, John
2 July 1858
John—
No doubt you believe I should apologize for my sudden visit to your studio. I will not apologize, however. I believe I was right to call on you when I did, that your extraordinary letter absolved me of all blame. It is impossible for a friend of long standing to stand by while another follows a course harmful to himself and to others.
And now that I have seen the woman you call Jenny I know that I have a reason for my concern. You called her remote, disinterested, but having heard her story I could not see her as anything but a woman in the greatest distress. Several times, while you were not watching, I was certain that she looked at me with the most pitiable expression, as if she asked me to rescue her from the impossible situation which entangled her. She looked, in fact, a little like my wife Kate, though younger.
What have you done to her, to this innocent, unfortunate woman? I must confess that I cannot forget the contents of your last letter to me, and that I shudder whenever I remember how you used her. You must stop. You must remember that she is not in her right mind.
I even thought of severing all ties with you, of refusing to speak to you until the woman is returned to the bosom of her family. I feel, however, that her interests would be best served if I continued to press you to give her up. Kate and I would be happy to have her in our house until her family is found.
My father is ill; I am leaving for the country tomorrow to tend to him. Kate will remain in London. I urge you to write to her, to tell her how you are getting on with your search. It is unfortunate that women of good breeding cannot visit artists’ studios alone, or I would have her call on you.
Yours most sincerely, Henry
3 July 1858
Dearest Kate—
You must not believe a word your husband says about me. I am, in fact, healthier than I have been in years. I feel renewed, almost reborn. I am working harder than I have ever done in my life.
I have finished the painting of Guinevere, but I grew dissatisfied with it the moment it was done. How could I have thought her remote, unattainable? She is a woman like any other. I am painting her meeting with Lancelot—she will be the very personification of Carnality. It is my best painting so far.
I hope you are well, and that Henry will return soon.
Your sincere friend, John
4 July 1858
Dearest Kate—
Did I call her Guinevere? She is Morgan le Fay, the temptress, the sorceress, the lamia. She has ensorcelled me; I cannot rid my thoughts of her.
I have started another painting. I am determined to capture her, to fix her forever on canvas as she truly is. I am devouring her. No—she is devouring me. But if I can capture one iota of her beauty my paintings will be the talk of London.
—John
5 July 1858
My Dearest Husband—
I must confess that I have visited John in his studio today. Please do not be angry—I am sending you his latest letter to me, and I am certain that when you read it you will understand my concern.
You told me that when you called on him he did not want to let you inside. I am afraid that he is now so obsessed with this woman that he is indifferent to visitors—he opened the door without asking for my name, murmured a few words and nodded absently, and then motioned me in. Once I was inside the studio, howeve
r, he seemed to forget my presence entirely, and paid no more attention to me than he did to his furniture—less, in fact, since he painted his furniture.
His studio was lit by dozens of lamps and candles, all of them artfully arranged to show his Jenny in the best light. Do you remember that horrible gargoyle candelabrum, the one he displayed proudly at a dinner party until we all begged him to hide it away? That was there, resting on the floor, the wax dripping slowly into its open mouth.
Against the wall I saw a half-finished painting of Eve offering the apple to Adam, and another of a sorceress luring a figure, possibly Merlin, into a cave. The canvas on his easel held the barest outline of a tall dark-haired woman. The colors were astonishing, vibrant and strong. He said in the letter I enclose that his paintings will be the talk of London, and I do believe that if he shows them they will not be soon forgotten.
I must tell you I was very alarmed by his appearance. His face was pale, his eyes sunken; his clothes, which were stained with paint, were as rumpled as if he had worn them for a week or more.
If I was worried by him, however, I became even more concerned about the woman Jenny. You said that she seemed pitiable, uncertain. At first I did not find her so at all; she looked hard, all glittering surface, a little cruel. But after a while—No, I will tell you the story in the order in which it occurred.
She lay against his divan, dressed in white and green. Golden jewelry glinted against her neck and at her fingers. As he worked the sun came out, shining so brightly through his windows that I had to squint to see against it, but he did not pause to douse the lamps. I remember what you told me, that he is in great want because he has not sold (or indeed completed) a painting in quite some time, and I was alarmed at his profligacy.
He stopped for a moment and looked around him. He swore horribly—I will not repeat what he said. Then he looked at Jenny and said, “Where is my other paintbrush?”
She said nothing. I truly believe she did not know. He paced up and down the room, agitated. “Answer me!” he said. “What do you have to say for yourself? Nothing—I assumed so. You were nothing before I found you. Where did you put my paintbrush?”
Travellers in Magic Page 20